Good Cows Together Go Moo
by wcgreen
Summary: "A milch cow," Finch says faintly, stopping abruptly. The very familiar farm animal standing next to his computer table fixes her mild eyes on him as her mouth works its cud. "Well, this is certainly the last thing I expected to find."


If you think the werewolf AU was unusual, look what it inspired. I blame this entirely on my own warped imagination. Many, many thanks to zihna for giving me permission to play with her story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest nor the story "Good Dogs Together Go Wild."

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><p>1. <em>lactation<em>

"A milch cow," Finch says faintly, stopping abruptly. The very familiar farm animal standing next to his computer table fixes her mild eyes on him as her mouth works its cud. "Well, this is certainly the last thing I expected to find."

It's not every day one returns home (well, to the musty library he calls home more often than not, anyway) and finds out that his business partner is a very large Holstein.

Finch carefully sets his files and Chinese food down and removes his coat, moving slowly and carefully.

Reese is a cow.

Actually, in retrospect, he should be shocked. Reese moves with the grace and power of an acrobat. To find him in the form of a heifer, somehow, is… _off_. Finch decided this must be the result of that CIA brainwashing debacle, but he did expect something much less ungainly.

He frowns. Surprises like this just won't do. If he'd known, he would have bought Mr. Reese something a little more cow-friendly: silage perhaps, not vegetarian _lo mein_.

"Wait," he says slowly, limping over to his currently bovine partner. "It's not even county fair time."

The cow blinks its eyes—his eyes? Hers? He is still Reese, but cows are female so which is it? Finch decides to go forego all pronouns until he can consider the matter.

Finch smiles a little, dryly. "I suppose you're special, Mr. Reese?"

Reese-the-cow's tail flicks forward as though shooing a fly.

"Going to change back any time soon?"

Reese-the-cow twitches both ears.

"So that's a no, then." Finch sighs, limping back to the table and grabbing his file. If Reese is going to stay cow, he can at least hear their next number. "Danny Walters, age 37," Finch reads as he brings the file to the cow's side, leaning against the cow's warm hide to take some weight from his bad leg.

Reese lows softly. Finch freezes. The cow certainly _looks _harmless enough, blinking balefully back at Finch. Maybe Finch just imagined—?

But when he goes to lean against the bony frame again, Reese lows again, louder than before.

"Really, Mr. Reese," Finch says, a little annoyed. "There's no need for that."

Reese gives him a Look and noses him rumpward. Finch steps back and the cow lows again. Finch steps closer and the cow stops.

Finch almost smacks his forehead. "You need milking? Really, Mr. Reese? _Really?"_

The cow lows again, and it clearly means _I'm full and very uncomfortable._

Finch has better things to do that argue with a cow and he sighs as he goes to find a wooden stool and a wastebasket that will have to serve as a pail.

"Insufferable bovine," he mutters, and Finch swears he hears Reese laughing.

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><p><em>2. muck<em>

Fusco keeps hearing bells. No, not bells—just one bell, a tinny loud clamor that sounds wherever he goes. The tintinnabulation makes the hair on the back of his neck stands up and he can't help but shiver.

His hands go for his gun. Are Tampa Bay Rays fans stalking him? Is Christopher Walken reprising his SNL sketch?

Fusco dodges people and slips into an alley, hoping to double back through the network of alleys and narrow streets and hopefully locate the source of the bell.

The sound of clanging doesn't go away, and he looks behind him really fast, hoping to see whomever is on his tail.

There's a black and white blur and he freezes.

Nothing else moves so Fusco warily keeps walking, checking behind him every now and then. Sometimes he hears the clang of metal, but most of the time there's nothing, and he starts to shake slightly.

"Hello?" he calls. "Who's there?"

There's no answer.

"C'mon, show yourself! I'm a cop! I'll arrest you!"

A lumbering shape comes around the corner, and Fusco freezes. Black and white hide, four hooves, a copper cowbell hung from a leather neck belt, and a pair of large brown eyes that fix their gaze on the detective.

A cow. In broad daylight, in the middle of New York City. Lumbering after _him_—because that's what cows do, isn't it, follow whatever moves—like it's looking for him to lead her to a barn.

Holy crap.

The big cow slowly turns around and backs up until her rump has forced Fusco against the wall of the alley. The reek of cow dung fills the alleyway as warm manure covers his suit and shoes. Bowels now empty, the cow lumbers away with a soft, lowing laugh that harmonizes with the jangle of the cow's bell.

Fusco sighs, still shaking slightly, and turns around to head home to change. Crappy cows.


End file.
